Out of Hell
by ImpalaLove
Summary: 4x01 Spoilers. Dean finally climbs his way back into the sunlight. But is any of it real? Rated for brief mentions of torture.


**Dean's thoughts as he climbs out of his grave in 4x01. This is kind of a weird style for me; a little different from my normal stuff in that it's a bit more sporadic. I have no idea where it came from, but now it's on paper/typed out so..yeah. Enjoy! I swear I'll try writing something happier one day...maybe.**

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Out of Hell

You wake up again, but this is different. Forty years of routine makes it hard to understand anything else, but here you are, no longer in the place you've been for all that time. This is different, but you're not sure if it's better. All you know is that it's dark. You've gotten used to light and fire for forty years. They always made sure it the fired burned bright enough so you could see what they were doing to you. So that you could watch while they tore you apart. Eyes always went last.

The dark is disorienting, but you decide that it's better than where you've been, so that's okay. It'd be a good idea now to figure out where you _are_, but it still takes you an extra second to fumble for the lighter in your pocket. You almost just want to lay here and never really know where you've landed. Because at least here, you're in one piece. And you're afraid that if you start moving, start searching, it'll all come rushing back and you'll wake up screaming like always.

The lighter flicks on anyway, because it's never been _in_ you to give in to what you want. Except right now you _do_ want something. There's no one else with you in this small pine box, so you can admit that right now you'd like very very much to get out of here. You'd like very much to not be six feet under, trapped until you run out of air. You cry out a second later and realize that your voice is gone. Your lungs are screaming but your lips stay silent, not enough air left to bring forth anything more than the choked attempt at a whisper. But that's okay because at least you still have your tongue. They never started with the tongue either, but sometimes if you screamed his name loud enough, they got annoyed and sliced it off. After a while you just learned not to scream so loud. You learned to chant his name in your head instead, a constant loop.

You climb out of the earth, clawing and digging and scratching until your fingernails bleed. But finally, finally you can see the surface and you crawl your way out, panting and gasping as sunlight (_real sunlight_ after forty years of fire) reflects off of your dirty skin, slides along the lines of your face. You lay there for a little while, still unsure if any of this is real. If _you_ are real.

There is one thing that you're pretty sure _is_ real, and you let the thought of that thing, that _person_, pull you to your feet, body heavier than you remember. In Hell, you never had to hold yourself up. The hooks did it for you.

Now every step takes effort, every breath a huff of exertion as sweat drips into your eyes. You're numb to the sting of it though. It's nothing in comparison.

You find an abandoned gas station, make your way inside. An entire bottle of water makes its way down your parched throat with the very best kind of burn. Better than whiskey at the moment. Still, this can't be real. You don't remember how it feels to have all your skin intact, to feel anything but pain. You check the mirror, just to be sure. Wondering why your body isn't torn to shreds, remnants from a hellhound attack you remember vividly despite all the time that's passed.

_Forty years. _

Shouldn't you be old by now? Shouldn't your skin be sagging, wrinkled, and shouldn't your hair be turning gray? It's been a lifetime and it's been agony but the newspaper doesn't lie so maybe it's really only been four months.

You find the old pay phone outside and it takes an extra second to slide the coins into the slot because you want so badly for all of this to be real. But what if you let those coins drop, and he doesn't answer? What if he does?

You're afraid you won't remember how to say his name without screaming it. In Hell, his name was all you knew and you screamed it over and over again as blade cut into flesh, as blood dripped onto cold floors because he was all you wanted to remember, his name the only song you'd bothered to memorize.

The phone rings.

And rings and rings.

Maybe you never wanted him to answer it in the first place. And Maybe you're too scared to admit that that's bullshit.

_Where are you Sammy? Tell me this is real._

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**Let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading! **


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